Go ahead — London!

40 years ago this week. Alone, that far away from everyone I knew for the first time ... it was more than a trip.

NOTE: My apologies for being absent from this stack. It was a confluence of things, but basically, just life getting overwhelming, working full time (for now), and the fact that events are happening so damned quickly, and while I surely have my opinions, and share them on other social media, I felt I would just be adding to the Tower of Babble in this space and lost among a lot of brilliant talking heads. What brought me back here was Veterans Day — thinking of my father, who was stationed in England in the Air Force and got to London a few times … and then realizing suddenly that I left for there on that day 40 years ago. Like most things in my life, it doesn’t seem that long ago. So here goes …

*****

I got pretty familiar with the Earl’s Court Tube station pretty quickly.

When I arrived in London the early Tuesday morning of November 12th, 1985, there was no London Eye, no Egg, no Shard, no cluster of skyscrapers in the Docklands. What there was, though, was the adventure of a lifetime for a young Yank. Alone, 3,000 miles away from everyone I knew, in a country I certainly knew of but just as certainly didn’t really know.

My first real vacation, and I would make the most of it. Trying to see it and experience it beyond the realm of a tourist as much as possible. In fact, so much so that I didn’t even bring a camera (I had a Pentax K1000 then) and have to lug it around like a ball and chain. (I did, though, take a strip of black-and-white shots at the Earl’s Court Tube station photo booth at one point, and they’re either lost or buried in storage.) My snapshots are all in the back of my head — or were, at least until now.

*****

I was 24, two years into my journalism life (as a sportswriter and a freelance album reviewer at my first paper) and a music fiend who occasionally DJed at New Haven’s (literally) underground music club, the Grotto, and was building a huge record collection, between the freebie promos that record labels were sending and frequent trips to Rhymes Records downtown, which kept up both on imports and a lot of the garage sounds I liked.

I’m not sure why I decided on London. In retro, probably because of all the music and the fashion, and because there was no language barrier (or so I thought), and I just needed to know what it was like exploring a place on my own. But by midsummer, I was set on London, and I got my passport that August. I met up with a travel agent and we squared everything away: I would head over in early November, kind of off-season, with off-season rates, but before it got too cold. I would fly out of Logan in Boston Monday the 11th and land in time for the morning rush the next day.

I went up to Boston (Allston, actually) that Saturday with some of my newspaper pals and crashed at someone’s apartment for the weekend, leaving early on a wet Monday afternoon to catch the T and head to the airport. I was nervous about flying, as I’d only taken one plane trip to that point, to Fort Lauderdale in July the previous year, and I was always leery about the plane crashing (as crashes occurred more often then). But I settled in nicely, though I had a hard time trying to sleep, as the adrenaline was rushing at the same time.

*****

No way I could afford the Burns Hotel these days, but back then, it was modest.

The plane landed at Gatwick just past sunrise, about 30 miles south of London, and it was around 8 when the express train approached the city, crossing the Thames with the Tower Bridge and morning rush hour traffic off the starboard. I guess any time one sees a city for the first time — well, except New York, as I was born there — it’s gonna be a sight to behold. Like, “Wow — this place I’d only seen in books and on TV and an occasional movie was for real!”

Armed with just map of the city and the Tube system and a book of tickets, I disembarked at Victoria and made my way to the District Line westward to the four stops to Earl’s Court. When I reached the street, the sun was blinding. And I just wanted to get myself situated in my room, maybe take a nap, then explore this fabulous and ancient city.

I walked into the Burns Hotel — which I understand was sold last year and reopened as a luxury hotel, but back then was modest accommodations, which is what I could afford on a journalist’s wages, and it would be 10 years before I broke down and got a credit card. And there, I got my agonizing first language lesson — the differences between English and American.

So much for resting; the woman at the desk told me they didn’t have my reservation. Great. And with the time difference, it would be at least a couple hours more before anyone could call the travel agent back in Naugatuck. And to make matters worse, my bladder was about to burst.

I got up from my seat in the lobby and asked her if I could use the bathroom. She said they were only for customers. Great. Just great. I went and sat down for what seemed like an hour but was probably only five minutes and rocked back and forth and hoped I wouldn’t explode, when I heard her voice again:

“Excuse me! Did you mean the toilet?”

“Yes.”

“Down past here and to the right.”

I should’ve said I needed the loo.

And you thought the Road Runner could turn on the jets …

Thus greatly relieved, I set out to do some exploring. The woman at the desk was kind enough to stow my bags away and I walked out and hit the Tube again; it was as good a time as any to get acquainted with the world’s oldest subway system. (For perspective, the Earl’s Court station opened in 1871, 26 years before our country’s oldest system, the Boston T, 33 before New York’s.) I just picked a place, any place, and I ended up walking around Trafalgar Square, as dozens of people sat on the steps leading up to the Nelson Column. But mostly, it was killing time walking around, absorbing the sights, getting used to the cars driving the wrong way, for two hours or so until I headed back to the hotel, where all was well by the time I got back and I was able to unpack for the next week.

If I remember right, I ended up at a busy pub around dinnertime and probably ordered a shepherd’s pie and a Smithwick’s as I casually looked around at the other patrons (young and a little better dressed than me).

*****

I didn’t take pictures in London, but this is generally what I looked like in ‘85. Shot that Mother’s Day at my folks’ house.'

I knew I was gonna have to get some mildly more stylish clothes, being this was London. In addition to some sport shirts and T-shirts, I brought two jackets with me — a Levi’s jacket that I had spray-painted day-glo yellow, orange and pink that summer with a snake and the logo of one of my favorite garage bands, The Vipers; the other a Cubs Starter jacket I picked up at the Starter factory outlet in New Haven. (I wasn’t a Cubs fan, but Starter jackets were trendy, and I was in the midst of my Steinbrenner-induced 17-year estrangement from the Yankees.) I also brought one or two pairs of shoes, plus the cheapie black cowboy boots I wore on the flight.

I didn’t want to go home early that Tuesday night, so after dinner, wearing my Vipers jacket, I walked around and found a club playing new-wavish dance music. As I walked in, the doorman said “You can’t wear those in here,” meaning my red Chucks. He was very polite and very big and very someone no one would fuck with. I apologized and said I didn’t realize; I just flew in the day before and was just looking for a club. Maybe it was my accent, maybe it was my pleasant personality, but he let me in. “But from now on, you can’t wear those here.” That’s okay; I had a drink, wandered around, and it was relatively quiet and boring, and I left within an hour.

The next evening, as I was heading out, I wore the Cubs jacket, and I was just about at the Tube when a young blonde man, walking with three of his friends, stopped and said, “Excuse me … What are the Cubs?”

I forgot — as if the Union Jacks on flagpoles weren’t enough of a hint, I was in a country where they didn’t play baseball, and football meant soccer. (The NFL wouldn’t make its first foray to London until the next summer.)

“The Chicago Cubs. They’re an American baseball team.”

“Oh. I was just curious.”

“By the way, is there anything going on tonight?”

“I’m afraid you wouldn’t want to come with us.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, we’re going to a homosexual club.” Yes, he said it like that.

Well, he read me pretty quickly. I wasn’t attracted to guys (though nearly a decade later, The Crying Game, also set in London, made me wonder about the whole sex-and-gender thing). We wished each other a pleasant good night and went on our ways. And I thought about him every so often and hoped that the AIDS epidemic didn’t touch him and his friends.

But I did strike fashion gold at a couple of places. I’ll circle back to Carnaby Street, but that Saturday morning, on the recommendation of a newfound friend, I trekked over to the always-crowded Portobello Road market. Found a worn but stylish long salt-and-pepper Donegal tweed overcoat for 15 quid at one stall and picked up a pair of cheapie fingerless gloves at another for that extra English effect. And as an extra accent, I added a metal-and-enamel Underground pin to the lapel. It would be my go-to cold-weather coat until it finally fell apart a few years later.

This is Donegal tweed. Imagine that in the shape of an overcoat.

*****

I could be in a shop, a restaurant, a club, asking for directions or ideas on where to go next, wherever, but the instant I opened my mouth, the person I was talking to would invariably say three things to me:

“Oh! You’re from the States!” (Busted!)

“Where do you live?” (“Halfway between New York and Boston” was a simpler explanation than telling them New Haven or Connecticut.)

“What’s it like?” (Well, I told them I was not a fan of Reagan — which resonated clearly with them, as they dealt with Thatcher — but that we’re not all like that.)

I was expecting some anti-American hostility, and got quite the opposite in return.

I also spent a few late nights talking with the hotel clerk at the desk, a tall, middle-aged Egyptian named Suleiman. (He told me how people from the south of England were cold, while those up north were much warmer.) My interactions with people on the whole were very pleasant. Maybe it’s because I wasn’t the Ugly American. Maybe because I was respectful that I was in their country, or because I interacted with them one-to-one, and not as an out-and-out tourist. I’m not sure. But the people? They were great.

Meanwhile, I did my share of getting on and off the Tube and seeing some of the touristy things. Visited the Tower of London and heard the tales of its long, rich, and sometimes-bloody and palace-intriguey history. Walked the bridge and past Parliament and Big Ben. Walked the banks of the Thames. Took at least one ride in a double-decker. Walked through Hyde Park, where, unfortunately, there was no one on the box in the Speaker’s Corner. And one weeknight, I boarded a bus to take one of those ghost tours of allegedly haunted places, most in and around Elephant & Castle, which also included a dinner.

Speaking of dinner, I don’t remember what I ate on the trip. Well, except for one night early on. I, now a firmly entrenched New Haven pizza snob, went to a pizza restaurant in London. I guess I just wanted to compare the two pizza styles. Yeah, I know — “Frannie, what the hell were you thinking? You know that was a bullshit answer!” “I know. Sorry.”

If I had half a brain or the better culinary taste I would develop in ensuing years, I probably would’ve gone to an excellent Indian or Chinese restaurant. Instead, I’d been walking around all day, I was hungry, and my stomach said “Restaurant! Food!” And the pizza joint was the first place I saw. And of course I was disappointed! The pizza was small, the crust was overdone, and the toppings were sparse. The worst pie I had — until, under the same state of hunger after a full day of unpacking, I impulsively went to the Me-n-Ed’s in the Tower District my first weekend living out in Fresno. You can bet I didn’t make that mistake a second time in the following eight years.

*****

Culture. Save for the first half of Saturday night, it was the pop variety for me.

Caught two movies that were hot over there. One was the light comedy Letter to Brezhnev, a quirky rom-com that featured the young Peter Firth and Alfred Molina as Soviet sailors on shore leave in Liverpool, and two working-class Liverpool women who fancied them. The other was Daniel Day-Lewis’ introduction to the top flight, My Beautiful Laundrette, a rare-for-the-time (and actually now as well) gay romance: his character, now a punk, reconnected with a Pakistani-English childhood friend, they fell in love, and opened said laundrette.

And as a music fiend, I was a bit shocked.

Whenever I heard Radio 4 (I think I did have a clock radio in my room), there were four new songs that I heard constantly. One was “Cities in Dust” by Siouxsie & the Banshees. One was “She Sells Sanctuary” by The Cult. The big surprise was that the other two were not only by American bands (from L.A.’s Paisley Underground), but bands that would never get any airplay on a major radio station here in the States, relegated to the left of the dial: “Time Ain’t Nothing” by Green on Red and “Looking for Lewis & Clark” by The Long Ryders. I made one stop at a record store, an HMV near Hyde Park. I bought the Green on Red LP, No Free Lunch, and assumed that the other radio cuts would be sent to me as promos (and I was right). Also bought the Letter to Brezhnev soundtrack, as well as new 12-inch singles by two UK faves of mine: “Something to Believe In”/”So Many Broken Hearts” by Scottish punk/funksters APB, and “Invitation” by Tracie Young, a protégé of Paul Weller from the early Style Council days for whom I had a pitter-patter.

But I wanted to see at least one band, and I got that chance that Friday night at the storied Marquee, the club on Wardour Street that launched the Stones, The Who and a countless list of other musical acts. That night, a garage/psychedelic band, The Playn Jayn, was playing its penultimate show. A band I’d never heard, never seen before and never would again, so I took a flyer. Perfect. And they didn’t disappoint. The only thing that bothered me was a number of young punters sitting down in front of the stage or close to it, like it was some sort of hippie fest. Really, folks? I mean, they had a psych element to it, but this was not a hippie-dippie show. To each their own …

*****

So, to circle back to Carnaby Street, as threatened … it led to the best night of the whole trip.

I’d taken my walks up and down Kings Road, passed Harrod’s, and saw the well-mohawked and studded-jacketed punks who provided the neighborhood color colour (pardon me). But shopping there seemed a little too rich for my journalist’s wallet, and besides, as someone who had gravitated toward ‘60s garage and the latter-day revival, I’d wanted to see if there were still some sartorial magic left on Carnaby Street, the mothership of so much of the Mod stylings of two decades earlier.

I can’t remember the name of the shop I entered, or what led me to walk in. But once I was in, I knew this would be a good place to buy some clothes to bring home with me.

(We interrupt this program … If you’re reading this on your email, jump over to the website or app, as I’m at my email limit. If not, read on …)

Carnaby Street circa 1985. I don’t remember the name of the shop where I bought my clothes, though.

The young man behind the counter was John — a local punk, unruly blonde hair, about my age. He said the same three things to me as everyone else once I spoke. And we seemed to have some music in common, so we struck up a good conversation as I looked at the shirts and pants and tried on some things. I couldn’t afford a hell of a lot, but I found a black shirt with tiny red paisley fronds, as well as a pair of skinny black jeans. They would go well with the cheap black cowboy boots. (I would complete the look the following summer when I bought a black suede fringe jacket from Wilson’s. All of these items of clothing, I miss. I also miss being able to fit into them, though post-transition, the shirt would sure fit a little more uncomfortably in the chest.)

We ended up going out to get a bite after he got off, and I asked him what was going on that weekend, my one weekend in London. I think it was he who told me about the Playn Jayn show, and Saturday night, we’d go see a play in the West End and then hit a club afterward.

The recently departed Glenda Jackson played thew title role.

I met him after work on Saturday, and we headed to the West End.

It was thinking about my father this past week on Veterans Day that made me realize it was 40 years to the day that I headed to London. That’s because he beat me there by three decades. After all, he was stationed in England in the Air Force back then (Croydon Park, in what essentially was a MASH unit), so he was no stranger to London. He died in 2016 and we sold the family house in 2021. While cleaning out the house that summer, I found a Mr. Goodbar box full of his Air Force memorabilia, and among the items was a West End playbill for a production of Guys & Dolls with Stubby Kaye, who originated the role of Nicely-Nicely on Broadway and again in the film. (As for me, I knew Stubby from childhood as the host of the Saturday morning kids’ game show Shenanigans. And fun fact: Stubby was born on the actual Armistice Day, Nov. 11, 1918.)

And now, tangent pulled back. John suggested Phedra, starring the recently departed Glenda Jackson, at the Aldwych Theatre. Having seen how expensive Broadway tickets had gotten (for that time, anyway — nowhere near as astronomical as now), I was stunned that tickets were only 12 quid. For a floor seat on a Saturday night in the West End. And it was nowhere near sold out, especially with an actor of her status. But she delivered a powerful performance.

Afterward, John knew of a private club that would have some decent music. Private clubs had leeway that pubs, public houses, didn’t. Closing time at the pubs was 11; no set time as far as I knew for private clubs. We had to sign up for a membership to make it official, I think we had to pay a five, and we descended into the small but happening club. We had some beers, and at some point, he saw two women he knew were selling pot; we each chipped in a ten, and he had some papers. It might as well have been oregano, it was that weak. Oh well … But the music and the company were good. Records that rattle around the corners of my brain from that night: the extended mix of “Cities in Dust” and a “Stars on 45”-style Sweet medley, “Sweet 2th – The Wigwam-Willy Mix,” which I would eventually find at Rhymes Records.

I didn’t have a watch, so I’m not sure how long we stayed there, but it was good. I at least got to have a night at a real club as a cherry atop a West End play. He had some friends in the East End who were squatting in an apartment tower, so we took a cab out there and walked up four flights of stairs to where about a dozen people about our age were sitting around on the floor of the flat. I got the same three questions, and I guess they were fine with me, as I came with John, so we got to talking for awhile as someone played music on a boombox in the background. One of the people there, a black-bespectacled guy who seemed to be in his late 20s, early 30s, used my presence to go on an anti-Reagan rant. I didn’t take it personally, and I told him in so many words that we were on the same page. He was good with that.

Eventually, we all drifted off to sleep on the floor of the unfinished space. It was chilly and damp, as you would expect, and I was glad I wore my new used overcoat. I just made sure, being a stranger in a strange place, to sleep in a position where no one could go poking for my wallet. Anyway, it turned out that I didn’t have a reason to worry.

It wasn’t the most comfortable place I’ve slept, but I slept long enough and well enough, though with the damp, I felt a little creaky when I woke up. Just about everyone was still asleep, and I didn’t see John. So I just quietly made my way down the stairs and headed out to the street. I had no idea where the fuck I was. I just started walking. It had to be about 20 minutes in on this quiet late Sunday morning that I saw a cab and hailed it and went back to Earl’s Court. I did some more walking around, feeling sad that I was gonna have to head home the next day and then assume my spot in the breech the night after that and resume my hectic life on the sports desk at the Waterbury Republican-American. Then back to the hotel. I took a bath, only to learn to my horror that there was no hot water for the tub. I just dealt with it, then got dressed and headed out to see My Beautiful Laundrette on a very quiet and damp Sunday night. It was a pleasant way to end things.

The next day, of course, I started out early for Gatwick and headed back to Boston. From there, the details are fuzzy. I don’t remember how I got back to Connecticut, and I’m guessing I left my car at the newspaper parking lot. I do know I returned home on the 18th. That’s because I stopped in at the folks’ house on the way back to New Haven to pick up the mail (and my promo records, including Siouxsie and The Cult), and Monday Night Football was on, Giants at Washington, and I was fortunate enough to miss having to see or hear Joe Theismann’s leg snapped by about 10 minutes.

Welcome back.

*****

When you’re young, you think oh, the places you’ll go, and I had a feeling I would go back to England someday. Well, actually, I did — I covered the Curtis Cup, a major women’s amateur golf tournament, at Royal St. George — in June of 1988. But as much as I enjoyed staying in Canterbury, 45 minutes away, and standing at the cliffs of Dover and looking over the Channel my first evening there, it was, indeed, work, with an extra level of stress from learning on the fly how to drive on the wrong side of the road.

But as for going for the fun of traveling, I haven’t been back. While I’ve traveled to other parts of the country — I mean, I moved all the way across the country for eight years — I haven’t been out of the country since 1992 (a three-day side trip to Victoria and Vancouver on a vacation in Seattle), and there are places I’d like to go and see. I made the unforeseeable mistake of staying in a career that would abandon me and thousands of others decades later. (No, scratch that — despite all the bullshit journalists deal with from the top brass, I met a lot of great people and had a lot of great experiences.) Ireland is calling. So is Australia, both Melbourne and Sydney. So is Toronto, or maybe a return to Montréal. So is a return visit to see my beloved peeps in Fresno and Sacramento. But it’s gotten so damned expensive, and worse when you’re living nearly paycheck-to-paycheck, on the job rollercoaster for years because some greed-driven scumbag or another wants to save a few pennies.

All told, I’m not sure I would enjoy London the way I did in ‘85; things and surroundings change, y’know? But I do know I had the chance to enjoy one pretty damned cool week there. I took a chance on immersing myself in a place where I was an ocean away from everyone I knew at the time, making or breaking my time away from the hectic life of home, and I most definitely made it.

Fran Fried has been a writer and editor in a wide range of subjects her entire adult life. She’s been a journalist, a DJ, a man, a woman, a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king and a lot of other things. Or something to that effect. But that’s life … She lives in Connecticut, and she really is trying to finish her book.